And yet. But. These qualifiers that intrude. I am enjoying the time at home, and yet. I know I am lucky to have a paycheck and work from home, while so many others have lost their jobs. But. I feel guilty for preferring to never go out. And yet, I would go crazy if not for my daily walks outdoors. But.
Because of my overactive brain, I can never be one thing. Happy? And yet. Good enough? But. Insert all my failures here.
Yet I still go on, and on, and on, and on and on and on.
Words become nonsensical if repeated too much. (I could never stand Gertrude Stein.)
Right now my brain hinges on getting my book published. It is at two contests and a publisher. I have no idea if the pandemic is delaying responses—I sent it out in December and January. I intend to send it to more places, and yet, I have not.
So many ways to not be good enough. WHEN the book is published, I will find a new way to and yet myself.
At least I stopped myself from writing IF.
This is what is coming out today, for Y, the second to last day of the blogging challenge. It feels too vulnerable to post. My imagined audience cringes. BUT perhaps I am revealing their anxieties and insecurities as I air my own.
IF I decide to post this.